by JL Bryan
Chapter Eighteen
The sound of the pilot's voice startled Jason awake.
“We'll be arrivin' in Dublin shortly,” she said over the intercom. “If you look out your window, you'll see our lovely island below. You'll need to be fastenin' your seatbelts in just a few minutes.”
Jason blinked. The airplane cabin was darkened, and the projection screen had rolled up into the ceiling. Earlier, they’d all sat back on the long divans to watch a movie—Alien Mutant Zombie II, adapted from the Malarkay video games of the same name. Several hours had passed since then.
He felt something moving against his arm. This was Erin's head. Apparently, she had slumped over onto his shoulder while they slept. Now she looked up at him, her eyes half-open and blinking. She smiled through the strings of blonde and green hair across her face. Jason brushed her soft cheek with his finger.
Erin frowned and sat up.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It's okay.” Jason touched a wet spot on his sleeve. “Did you drool on me?”
“I said sorry!” Erin wiped at the long hairs clinging to her face.
“Here.” Jason brushed her hair back and tucked it behind her ears.
“Thanks,” she said. Her eyes lingered on him for a second.
“Are we there yet?” Mitch stretched, waking up.
“Were you guys making out?” Dred asked.
“Very funny.” Erin stood up and stretched, and Jason tried not to watch the curve of her body as she did it.
Jason looked out the oval window. Thousands of feet below, Ireland looked plaid—countless shades of green, in squarish patches divided from each other by low stone walls. The sun was just rising, casting a rich golden glow over everything.
“Wow, that's really pretty,” Erin said, looking out the next window.
“Really pretty,” Jason agreed, looking at her, but she didn't look back.
“Is everyone ready to land?” Ciara the flight attendant walked through the curtain from the galley. “We hope you've had a pleasant flight with us.”
“Extremely pleasant,” Mitch said. “'Pleasant' isn't even adequate. Um, so, do you know what happens now?”
“Now you'll need to strap in for the landin',” Ciara told him.
“No, I mean after that. What happens after we land?”
“I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Schneidowski,” she replied.
“I mean, is someone meeting us?” Mitch asked.
“Aren't you supposed to know?” Dred asked him.
“Why would I know?” Mitch asked.
“You're supposed to be in charge of this stuff,” Dred said.
“Oh...so now you admit that I'm the leader of the band,” Mitch said.
“If you're going to act like it, you should at least know what's going on,” Dred told him.
“How? It's not like that Cayce Roddell guy was very specific. Just got us to sign the contracts, then took off.”
“I knew I should have asked more questions,” Dred said.
“I'm sure your arrangements have been made,” Ciara said. “Now, if it's no trouble, you might buckle yourselves in for the landing.”
They banked over the city of Dublin, which looked like it was made of stone and worn brick, with a medieval layout underneath the modern buildings. It was the oldest city Jason had ever seen.
The airplane dropped toward a small private airfield just outside Dublin.
Jason reached for Erin's hand, but she pulled it back.
“I'm okay,” she said, with a little smile. “Landing doesn't scare me.”
“It should!” Mitch said. “Takeoff and landing are the most dangerous parts of an airplane ride.”
“Shut up, Mitch,” Dred said.
They watched the ground rush up at them. The plane bounced as it hit the runway, then quickly braked, coasting to a smooth stop.
“This is it,” Mitch said. “This is where we become rock stars.”
“You're such a dork,” Dred said.
They left the plane by the front stairs.
“Will you need be needin' anything else?” Ciara asked. She stayed on the steps.
“Other than a basic sense of where to go and what to do, I can't think of anything,” Mitch said.
“Enjoy your visit to Ireland!” Ciara climbed back up the stairs.
“Something tells me she doesn't have a great sarcasm detector,” Mitch said.
“Who are these guys?” Dred asked. She was eying a pair of very large men with longish red hair. They were both unusually tall, like Andrew Malarkay himself, and dressed in dark brown woolen suits without neckties. They rolled a baggage cart between them. As they drew closer, it became obvious that they were identical twins, with broad flat noses and hard-looking eyes. The only distinction between them was the scars on their faces.
“I hope they're the welcome wagon,” Jason said.
“You're the band, then?” one of the twins asked. “From America?”
“We're the band from America,” Mitch said.
“You look like your pictures,” the other twin said.
“I'm Shane,” the first twin said. He shook Mitch's hand, and Jason saw Mitch wince at the man's grip. Shane turned and shook Jason's hand, too, nearly crunching it in his grip. “I'll be your security for your visit. And this is my brother Sean. He'll be your driver.”
“I’m your security, too,” Sean added, with a scowl at his brother. “Shane and I will be sharin' the security and driving duties.”
“Cool, we have security guys!” Mitch said.
“Now, we'll just be grabbing your luggage and such,” Sean said. He began loading suitcases and instruments onto the luggage cart.
Shane squinted at Erin.
“You look a bit like an Irish lady yourself,” Shane said.
“I got a double dose of it,” Erin said. “My mother’s an O'Neill. My father is a Kavanagh.”
“Ah, two great Irish families,” Shane said.
“I guess.” Erin shrugged.
“But the blue and green bits of your hair, those aren’t Irish,” Shane said. “Those must be American.”
Erin laughed.
“Get over here and help, you lazy gobber,” Sean yelled. “Stop flirting with the guests.”
“I wasn’t flirting!” Shane lumbered over to the cart and started moving luggage. He was blushing. “Just being friendly with our new clients.”
“And what do you think Mr. Malarkay would say to that?” Sean asked.
“I’m sure he intends us to be hospitable!” Shane slammed a suitcase onto the cart, then reached for one of Mitch’s keyboards.
“Hey, careful!” Mitch ran over to supervise. “Those instruments can’t be replaced.”
“See? You’ve gotten careless,” Sean said.
“Quiet, you,” Shane replied. He gingerly laid the keyboard case onto the cart.
The twins led them to a stretch Rolls-Royce limousine. Sean held the door while the four of them climbed into the long black car. The spacious interior was upholstered in soft, dark leather.
Dred and Mitch sat on the rear-facing seat behind the driver, while Jason and Erin took the seat near the back. A lot of empty space lay between the two chairs, with a bar and a television at one side.
“Jason! Can you hear me?” Mitch cupped his hands around his mouth, as if shouting across a canyon.
“No!” Jason called back. He picked up a phone handset from his end of the bar. “Try using the phone!”
“You guys are so lame,” Dred said.
They drove out of the airport and south through Dublin. Erin snapped pictures through the window of statues, cathedrals and other old stone architecture. The city felt modern at the outskirts but progressively more medieval and charming as they wound towards the center.
“This is so beautiful,” Erin said. “So old. You know? The oldest thing in Chippewa is, what? The post office?”
“We're to take yo
u directly to the studio,” one of the twins said over the intercom. A glass barrier divided the drivers from the passengers. “We can stop at your hotel for an hour if you need, but no more.”
“We got plenty of sleep on the plane,” Mitch said. “I'm ready to get started.”
“Yeah, I want to see the studio!” Erin said.
While Sean drove, Shane narrated their trip through the city, pointing out the spiky Gothic towers of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and a sprawling, tree-filled park called St. Stephen’s. “The revolutionaries occupied that park during the Rising, a hundred years ago. Until they sorted out that a low, grassy green surrounded by high buildings wasn't the best position to take during a revolution.”
“And here's Donnybrook. Used to be home to the Donnybrook Fair each year, until it grew so wild and fun they outlawed it. Now there's just a shopping center to commemorate those wild days.” He pointed to a grocery store named Donnybrook Fair. “Now it's where you'll find our broadcasters, like the Malarkay Tower up ahead.” He pointed to a round tower that jutted up against the skyline. It appeared to be made entirely of black glass trimmed in gold. A golden M, three stories high, glittered near the top of the tower. “That's where you're going.”
The limo pulled through a gate into an underground parking garage beneath the black tower. Inside the garage, the limo passed all the parking spots and drove straight towards a pair of elevator doors.
“Hey, watch out!” Dred said, but neither of the twins replied.
The limo drove straight through the opening doors and braked to a halt inside a large freight elevator. The doors closed and the elevator ascended. Elevator music streamed in through the sunroof.
“Is this safe?” Jason asked.
“It's how Mr. Malarkay likes to do things,” Shane said. “Wants his car to pull right up to his office on the top floor. That's not where you're going, though.”
They stopped on the twelfth floor. Sean hopped out and opened the side door for them, while Shane opened the limo's huge trunk.
The elevator doors slid open. Cayce Roddell, vice-president of A&R, stood on the other side, along with his assistant Velga, who wore a black leather business suit and a matching wig. A handful of young people in ties stood behind them. Most of the ties were gold, or gold-striped, or gold-dotted.
They all applauded the arrival of the Assorted Zebras. Cayce wore a huge smile, as did everyone except Velga, who remained stylishly cold and aloof.
“Welcome! Have a nice trip? That’s great,” Cayce said. “Come on, right this way.”
Cayce led them down a curving sun-drenched hallway where the outer wall was entirely glass, overlooking the city of Dublin and the deep blue waters of Dublin Bay gleaming in the morning light. The hallway was so wide that they could have probably driven the limo through it, Jason thought.
Their security guys, Shane and Sean, followed behind them, rolling a cart onto which they'd loaded the instruments.
Some of the interior walls were glass, too. They passed what was obviously the set of a news program, with young and attractive people in professional wear sitting at a curved desk in front of a green screen, with an array of lights and cameras pointed at them.
“We're all very excited,” Cayce was saying. “We're expecting very big things from you. Very big things.”
Jason gulped.
“I'm sure we can handle it,” Mitch said. “As long as those guys are careful with our instruments.” He jabbed a thumb at Shane and Sean.
“Guys! Careful with those instruments!” Cayce barked at the giant twins, who scowled back at him. Cayce winked at Mitch. “See? All taken care of. Now, here's someone who's truly excited to meet you...Assorted Zebras, meet your producer, Heath Blank.”
Cayce led them into a spacious recording studio with a sprawling main live room lined in dark wood, plus two additional isolation booths, plus the control room. Heath Blank, the famous producer who'd twice been on the cover of Rolling Stone, slouched behind an enormous mixing board, flanked by assistants on each side. Heath's short hair was dyed a blinding white, and he wore rings at his eyebrows, nose and ears. He looked sullen.
Cayce opened the control room door.
“Heath-o!” Cayce said. “Come meet your new stars.”
Heath sighed and put his foot up on the mixing board. He clearly wasn't getting up for them.
“Eh, let's just go inside,” Cayce said. He led the four band members into the booth, gesturing for everyone else to stay out. “Heath, here are the Assorted Zebras—Dred Zweig, Mick Schneidowski, Jason Becker, Erin Kavanagh.”
Heath looked them over with bored eyes.
“So these are the American kids I'm supposed to turn into a fat new revenue stream for the great Mr. Malarkay,” Heath finally said.
“These are the ones!” Cayce said. “We'll just unpack their instruments here—”
“No!” Heath said. “Only my people are allowed in my studio.” He snapped his fingers, and his assistants—young men and women, tattooed and pierced like their boss—jumped to their feet and scurried out of the room, towards the cart full of gear.
“Ah, my keyboards have to be assembled a very particular way,” Mitch said, holding up a finger as he followed them out.
Heath stood, grudgingly, and looked at each of the band members. Jason felt like he was in some army movie, in which Heath was the harsh drill sergeant, and Jason was the young recruit who was about to get insulted up and down.
Heath pointed at Erin.
“Tell me you're the lead singer,” Heath said. “Just tell me that, and we might be able to get through this sad mess.”
“I am,” Erin said, giving him a nervous smile.
“Ah!” Heath dropped into his chair. “That's truly a relief. I'd hate having to try to sell his face all over the Western world.” He pointed at Jason.
“Um, thanks?” Jason said.
Heath waved a hand. “Let's get to work now and we can make it an early night. Go take your places.” Heath leaned back and read a Punisher comic as he waved them out of the room.
Heath's assistants sorted them into different booths—Erin into one booth for vocals, Jason into the other booth with his guitar. He watched as Mitch argued with Heath’s tech guy throughout the process of setting up his keyboards. Jason was glad to be in a separate soundproof room so he didn’t have to hear any of it.
Jason warmed up on his guitar, playing easy songs like “Wish You Were Here.” He’d really only been playing guitar for a few months, and didn’t know very many songs. The magic in the guitar enabled him to play any song he’d ever heard, and the guitar could somehow shift between electric or acoustic. Jason wondered how far he could stretch it—maybe it could sound like a steel guitar or a bass, too.
Jason really loved the guitar.
His headphones came to life. One of Heath’s assistants was feeding him a mix from the microphones in the live room with Mitch and Dred, the vocal isolation room with Erin, and the control room with Heath. Heath’s voice came through much louder than anything else.
“All right,” Heath said. “Warm yourselves up or whatever you do. Right now, I just want to listen to what you’ve got. Let's start with...ah, it hardly matters...pick a song. What's this one called...'First Road Out of Here'? Just what the world needs, one more song about roads. Let's play.”
They launched into the song.
Heath had them play through their usual list of Erin's songs. They only played each song once, and Heath never said anything, except to move on to the next one.
“What else have you got?” Heath asked.
“That's all,” Erin told him. “Well, actually, there's one I've kind of been putting together in my head today. It's called 'Afraid to Fly.' But I don't have all the lyrics quite yet—”
“A song about fear of heights? I don't know,” Heath said.
“Well, it's really about stepping out on your own, testing yourself against the world
, that kind of thing.”
“Right,” Heath said. “Anyway, I saw the bootleg video of your performance at that music festival in whatever little town you're from.”
“Actually, that was Minneapolis,” Dred said. “We’re from Chippewa Falls.”
“Whatever,” Heath said. “What really interests me here is this song called...what’s it called? 'The Sugar Dance?'”
“Oh, that's not really a song,” Erin said. “I mean, that was just a stupid improv thing we did. I don't even know why. It's pretty bad.”
“The audience chomped it up, though, didn’t they?” Heath said. “The entire crowd did the exact dance, just as you sang it to them, Erica. That's powerful stuff.”
“My name's Erin,” Erin said.
“Whatever,” Heath said. “The blond singer chick. Just do the stupid song, and then we'll move on to something else, all right? I’ve got a whole stack of stupid songs in my folder here, and I’ll expect you to sing them all.” He waved a thick black folder with the golden Malarkay logo.
“You could be a little nicer to her,” Jason said.
“Who was that? The guitarist?” Heath scowled at Jason from the control room. “Listen, kid, I'm not even going to pretend I care what your name is. My job is to package and sell you. You do whatever I say—that's in your contract. Now, let's get past all of this distraction, and play me some Sugar Dance.”
Erin sighed. She played the tune on her harmonica, and Jason's hands and guitar seemed to remember just how to play the song that had made the whole festival crowd dance like they’d been choreographed, like the cast of a musical.
“‘Everybody raise your hands, everybody do the sugar dance?’” Erin half-sang over the headphones. “That’s really the song you want?”
“Yes, only pretend to have some enthusiasm about it,” Heath said. “Pretend there’s a whole club full of people, and you really, really want them to do this dance. That’s why you’re ordering them about.”
“Erin...and Jason...try to keep the nice producer guy happy,” Mitch said over the headphones.
“Right, whatever.” Erin played another bar on her harmonica. Jason could almost hear her rolling her eyes as she sang:
Everybody raise your hands,
Everybody shake your pants
Everybody do it, do it, do it...
Everybody do the sugar dance!
The sugar dance! Yeah, yeah...
The sugar dance! Yeah, yeah...